


Warmth

by pouty_hoseok



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Song of Achilles Fusion, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Drabble, I Made Myself Cry, Inspired by The Song of Achilles, M/M, No Fluff, This Is STUPID, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This is Bad, it's just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28436709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pouty_hoseok/pseuds/pouty_hoseok
Summary: Even after he's gone, Hongjoong continues to chase Seonghwa's warmth.
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Kudos: 11





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> uh, hongjoong is achilles and seonghwa is patroclus, just FYI, and you should totally read the actual book so yeah yee yee ig

Their relationship is not one of equals. Hongjoong - or Achilles as they like to call him, sometimes even Pelides, though he’ll forever be Hongjoong to Seonghwa - is Seonghwa’s superior. He has this - this  _ way _ about him that commands people, that demands their attention and obedience (though only in public. Seonghwa knows he relaxes once they’re alone). He is, after all, the greatest of the Greeks. He always has been and, in Seonghwa’s mind at least, he always will be. He’s Hongjoong, beautiful and strong and powerful in the way a god is powerful. Then again, Seonghwa supposes that he  _ is _ half-god. A demigod, if you will. He is Hongjoong, and he is Seonghwa’s entire world. 

And whereas Hongjoong is angry and dominant and violent, Seonghwa is the opposite of him. Seonghwa is the peacemaker, though, around the camp they’ve taken to calling him Hongjoong’s bitch. To be honest, Seonghwa doesn’t mind. He doesn’t have to because he knows Hongjoong doesn’t see him that way. Through Hongjoong’s eyes, they are equals. They are friends of the highest order, and lovers once they’re alone. And, though he himself doesn’t see them as equals, Seonghwa will allow himself to create the illusion of it, though only for Hongjoong. Seonghwa is his, and Hongjoong is Seonghwa’s, though not to the same extent. Yet, as they lie together and Hongjoong whispers to him how Seonghwa is his life and how would gladly lay it down for him, Seonghwa knows it to be true. 

Or, at least, he thought he did. Because now, from Agamemnon taking the girl - Briseis - from Hongjoong, they have stayed in the camp for days as the rest of the Greeks fight. To bleed. To  _ die _ .

“Seonghwa, my love,” Hongjoong says, startling the man out of his little daze as he watches the battlefield crawling with dying men. They look like beetles, their armor glistening beneath the hot, relentless sun of Apollo. Seonghwa thinks, though he might just be projecting, that he can smell the blood of their brethren from where he stands on the ship, staring out at the bloodbath that this horrible, years-long war has become. 

“Why will you not fight, Achilles?” Seonghwa says without turning to look at him. Hongjoong and Achilles, in Seonghwa’s eyes, are two separate beings. Hongjoong, the man whom Seonghwa has loved for longer than he knows and would sacrifice everything for, is kind and caring and playful. He is Seonghwa’s everything. 

Achilles, on the other hand, is not. Achilles is the man who stands behind Seonghwa now, the one who is so full of pride and spite that he would rather watch his fellows die than rescue them. Because everyone - whether it be Seonghwa, the one Hongjoong loves most, or Agamemnon, perhaps the most hated man in the camp, though Achilles may soon come to second that if he doesn’t already - knows that Hongjoong is the only one who can win. Yet Achilles holds him back, demanding that he stays. 

Achilles, to Seonghwa, is Thetis. He is her essence, the mark she has left upon her son. 

“Why will you not call me Hongjoong?” comes the retort, once again startling Seonghwa. The man turns around, tilts his head ever so slightly to the side and stares sadly at his lover. 

“I will not call you that name,” he says softly, “because the Hongjoong I know would not do this to his people.” He turns back to stare, throwing his arms out. “Look, Achilles! Look at them as they die underneath the gaze of Apollo, underneath  _ your _ gaze! Has your pride truly taken your humanity? This is no longer about honor, for you will have none left once they are gone. You will suffer for this, your cruelty. Do you - do you truly believe that you are in - that your actions are  _ justified _ ?” 

Hongjoong doesn’t respond, simply choosing to step up to look out upon the battlefield. Even like this, Seonghwa finds him so frustratingly beautiful. His nose is sharp and curved, his lips plump and pink, and his long hair is tousled by the warm summer winds. He stares, his dark eyes cold and calculating, and then he shrugs. 

“Until Agamemnon apologizes, I will stay here,” he says. He turns to Seonghwa. “Is this not what you wanted, Seonghwa? Did you not beg me to stay all those years ago?” 

“It is of no use now,” Seonghwa growls. “You have - Achilles, Hongjoong, I  _ know _ you hate this. If not for the lives lost, then simply because you were born to fight. My love, do not lie to me. You may do so to yourself, but I know you. I have known you for so long-”

“Then you know that I will not leave,” Hongjoong spits. “You know that I will remain here until that filthy bastard comes crawling on his hands and knees.”

“And if he is dead?” Seonghwa says, though he knows Agamemnon is too much of a coward to get close enough to the fighting to be killed. “What will you do then? Will you fight?” 

“I will have his body brought before me.” 

Seonghwa scowls. “This is - by now, you are simply being childish. I know you’re more than this, Hongjoong. You and your many names and the strange personalities attached to them, I know you’re more than this. You are better than your pride.” He grabs his hands and tries to smile. “My love, why will you not fight?” 

Hongjoong looks like he’s stuck between yanking his hands free and pulling Seonghwa closer. 

“I cannot,” he says and Seonghwa feels his heart sink. “I will not.” 

Seonghwa hates to argue. He knows this conversation, has had it with Hongjoong or Achilles or Pelides or whatever they call him far too many times. So he simply sighs and allows his shoulders to slump, Hongjoong’s small hands slipping from his grasp. 

“I know,” he says sadly. He presses their foreheads together. “And for that, I wish you to come to your senses.” 

He turns around, then, and walks off, heading out to the tent to try and do what he can. Because, try as he might, he will never beat the pride of his lover. 

The next day, Machaon is injured. They see him from their place on the ship, and Hongjoong tells Seonghwa to go see who it is. Seonghwa runs yet he still feels caged, locked in by Hongjoong’s pride. Nonetheless, he runs. 

“Machaon!” he calls, rushing after the man into the tent. He’s old, too old for fighting, and if that’s not a good enough excuse, then the fact that he’s their best doctor should be enough. Yet here he is, lying on a stretcher as his brother, Podalerius, tends to his wound. 

“Patroclus,” Nestor gasps from beside him because, just as Hongjoong, Seonghwa has a different name. Patroclus, the disgraced prince. “Patroclus, they have broken the wall. Why does he remain?” 

The words catch in Seonghwa’s throat and he wishes an answer to come to his lips, though none are formulated. 

“Please, talk to him,” Machaon says. Seonghwa wants to say he has. “We are begging you, Patroclus. You are the only one who can save us. Please.” 

Seonghwa stands there, heart in his throat and unable to move. He has one answer and he hates it, hates it with every fiber of his being, but he must give it to them.

“No,” he says, his voice choked-off and broken. He flees, then, unable to remain in that tent that is so full of bleeding men that the smell of iron is permanently ingrained in the fabric. 

However, the outside is no better. Countless men swarm the area, soaked with the blood of their enemies, their comrades, their own damned bodies. Seonghw can smell it, and he can recognize them, name them. He’s spoken with them before, when Achilles still ruled the field like the kingdom he was destined to take over, would call them friends. And now, they are dying, begging and pleading with the gods for mercy, whether it be living or dying, Seonghwa doesn’t know. He rushes around and it feels as if he isn’t even in his own body, only a spirit watching from the heavens as he finds a young man with an arrow-pierced leg. Euryplyus of Thessaly.

Instinctively, Seonghwa loops an arm around his torso. He cannot think, not now when he has come to the terrible, painful realization that this is, in essence, his fault. He cannot speak. 

“Patroclus,” Euryplyus says beside him, delirious with pain and probably blood loss. 

“Euryplyus,” Seonghwa breathes, his voice breaking through, “can you speak?” 

“It - it was Paris,” he gasps. His leg is swollen and torn by the arrow. “My fucking - fucking bastard got my leg,” he says. Seonghwa needs no reminder. 

As he works, Euryplyus talks, seemingly having forgotten who exactly is working on his leg. 

“Gods, I can’t say who I hate more, the Trojans or damned Achilles. Sarpedon tore the wall apart with his bare fucking hands, even after Ajax. He held-” he gasps “-held them off for as long as he could. They’re here now, in the camp.” 

Seonghwa feels his legs get ready to run, though he forces himself to focus on Euryplyus. Most importantly, Euryplyus’ leg. He eases it out as best as he can then, moving quickly so as to keep the man from losing too much blood, he binds the wound. 

“Faster,” Euryplyus says, perhaps harsher than he intends. “I have - have to go back or they’ll - they’ll burn the ships.” 

“No,” Seonghwa says. “No, you will stay here. You - you lost too much blood.” 

Euryplyus shakes his head and opens his mouth to argue, but then his head slumps backwards as his consciousness wanes. Seonghwa prays he lives, though, by now, that is in the hands of the gods. His work is done. 

Sighing, Seonghwa takes a deep breath to try and prepare himself for the supposed hell that awaits him. 

It does, in fact, look like what Seonghwa would imagine hell to look like. They’ve gotten to two of the ships and they glow brightly, orange and red flames hungrily consuming wood and men presented to them. Men scream and cry as they try to put the flames out, though it’s of no use. Seonghwa recognizes no one but Ajax, huge and impossible to ignore. He seems to be immune to the fire as he points his spear downward and attacks the Trojans that swarm the ship like dogs around a piece of meat. 

Seonghwa cannot move. He cannot move, even when he sees Hector appear, huge and dangerous and scarily peaceful as he swings a torch toward a pile of rotting ropes on the deck. The flames catch before Ajax can stop them and Hector smiles a victor’s smile that Seonghwa wishes he was strong enough to tear from his face. But he cannot, for he is not Achilles. He is not Hongjoong, and he never will be.

However, he is enough of a medic to know that Ajax will fall when a bright, silver spear-point pushes through the swarm of Trojans and pierces Ajax’s thigh. A bright red spot of blood blooms there and Seonghwa deliriously thinks of a poppy as he watches Ajax fall.

Hongjoong, when he comes running back, is frowning. It is not enough, especially compared to Seonghwa’s tear and blood painted skin and raw throat, his face flushed from running and his tongue still remembering the taste of blood. 

“What - what’s going on?” he says, his brow furrowed. Seonghwa wishes to scream at him, to demand how he doesn’t yet know. 

“They are  _ dying _ ,” he says, choking on his words. “You - all of them, dead or dying. They are here, the Trojans, and they are burning the ships and Ajax is wounded.” He grabs Hongjoong by the forearms and shakes him. “You are the only one who can save them. Hongjoong, fight!” 

His lover’s face is devoid of emotion. 

“If they are dying,” he says coldly, “it is Agamemnon’s fault. He  _ knew _ what was going to happen if he took my honor and he chose not to listen.” 

“Hongjoong, what about last night when he offered-”

“He offered  _ nothing, _ ” Hongjoong hisses. “A few tripods, armor. Nothing of worth to me and not nearly enough to soothe me. He admitted no wrongdoing on his part.” He jerks away from Seonghwa, and the older man wishes to chase after his warmth. “I have saved him too many times. The others - Odysseus, Diomedes, and everyone else, they may lick his boots for all I care, but I will hold onto my honor until they are all  _ dead _ .” 

His voice is so full of anger and resentment that Seonghwa feels as if he’s truly lost. Nonetheless, he tries, continuing to clutch onto him. 

“Yes, you are correct,” he says. “I know you are right, as does everyone else. But Hongjoong, you must - you must erase such insults from your mind. He has doomed himself, yes, but they do not deserve to take the fall as well. It - Hongjoong, don’t let them die for him. They loved and honored you so much, my dear, and they might just do so again if you are to fight.” 

“They have not loved me, nor have they honored me,” Hongjoong says. “When Agamemnon came, they hid like children from thunder. They let him believe he was  _ right _ . I have led this war for ten damn  _ wasted _ years, yet not one of them could dare speak up.” He is angry, he is bitter, and he is betrayed. Seonghwa has never heard him sound this way before. “ _ They _ are the ones who signed their own death warrants, just as Agamemnon. I will not cry for them, no matter how they beg.”

Seonghwa can hear them from the beach, can hear the ships breaking. There’s more smoke, more fire, and more people dead. With more men dead, the name Achilles continues to lose its shine as it is slathered by his own men. 

“Yes, they were foolish, but they are our people,” Seonghwa argues, grasping his hands. He’s shaking, begging and pleading with Hongjoong to fight.

“Our people, Seonghwa, are the Myrmidons. The rest may fend for themselves.” Again, Hongjoong tries to leave, but Seonghwa clutches him even tighter, pressing him closer. 

“What of your honor, your legacy? My love, you are damning yourself! You have - you will not be remembered as a hero, but a coward who left the war after throwing a hissy-”

“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong says. His own name cuts him, sharp and spoken in a way Seonghwa has never heard before from Hongjoong. “I have told you time and time again that I will not do this. Do not bring this up again.” 

Seonghwa stares at him, finally at a loss.  _ No _ , he thinks as he stares at Hongjoong. Yet, as they stand there beneath a sky darkened by smoke and near waves whose cries are drowned out by those of the dying men around them, he realizes that Hongjoong will not fight. His pride is too valuable, too much for him. He will remain here, standing and waiting for either Agamemnon or the war to come to him. Whichever is fastest. 

“Do it for me, then,” Seonghwa whispers, grasping Hongjoong’s hands and pressing them to his tear-soaked cheeks. “My love, do it for me, if not for them or yourself or the glory or the honor, then do it for  _ me _ .” He presses his lips to the skin of Hongjoong’s hand, shutting his eyes. “Hongjoong, I know - I know it’s hard, but this is all I ask. Will you not do fulfill this one request?”

Hongjoong fights himself, wrestling with his pride and love for Seonghwa. Seonghwa stares at him, searching his eyes for some sort of sign. 

But, in the end, he still shakes his head. 

“Anything else,” he whispers hoarsely, “anything else, my love, and I’d give it to you. This is the one thing I cannot give you.” 

“If you really love-”

“No!” Hongjoong cries, his voice shrill. “No, you know I love you more than anyone and anything in the entire universe, yet I cannot give you this. I  _ will _ not give you this.”

“Then send the Myrmidons,” Seonghwa breathes. He tightens his grip on Hongjoong’s hands and tugs him close, ducking down to press their foreheads together. “Send the Myrmidons and I’ll lead them in your armor. They will think - they will believe it’s you. It will scare the Trojans away in the very least. Please, we must do  _ something _ .” 

The words do not feel as if they belong to Seonghwa because, out of the two of them, Hongjoong has always been the brave one with the daredevil ideas. These are not Seonghwa’s words nor does it feel as if it’s his idea, yet Seonghwa grasps them with white-knuckled hands, begging and pleading with Hongjoong. 

“Think, Hongjoong!” he cries, voice growing in volume. “If the mere  _ illusion _ of your presence is enough to drive them back, then Agamemnon will be humiliated.” He can see the gears turning, see how Hongjoong thinks and puts the pieces together. “My love, it would work. It has to work.” 

“No,” Hongjoong says. “Seonghwa, you’ll - something will happen to you and I don’t - no, I would never be able to live with the guilt of it. You cannot.” 

This time, Seonghwa is the one jerking away from Hongjoong. 

“You said anything else,” he cries, his voice bordering on a sob. “If you cannot fight, then so be it, you will not fight. But let me take your place! Put me in your armor and I will lead them. It would humiliate Agamemnon if a decoy made the Trojans return.” 

Hongjoong looks unsure, but Seonghwa knows he’s making progress. That refusal in his eyes is beginning to recede and Seonghwa clings to it desperately, for he can no longer bear to see his comrades die in vain. 

“They will laugh at him when it is revealed,” he says. “They will laugh when they see that all of his efforts are nothing compared to the simple phantom of your presence. It will not be your power or your skill, but instead your very  _ name _ . Is that not enough?” 

Hongjoong’s thinking about it now, truly, genuinely considering it, and Seonghwa already knows. He already knows.

“Promise me,” he says, then, grabbing Seonghwa’s hands. “Promise me that you will not fight. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Seonghwa says. 

“Stay in the chariot. Let the Myrmidons fight, but you will remain behind them in the chariot with Automedon. Do not throw any spears, do not use your sword.” He squeezes his hands, pressing their foreheads together. “And do not get hurt.” 

Seonghwa smiles at him. 

“Of course,” he says. “I promise. I’ll be back before you know it.” 

The next morning, Hongjoong puts his armor onto Seonghwa. It feels strange to wear it, and, when Seonghwa looks into the bronze mirror, he sees Hongjoong staring at him. Of course, he’s a little taller, his arms and legs a bit longer, his shoulders a bit broader, but, in the end, the armor fits and Seonghwa is no longer Seonghwa. Instead, he has become Hongjoong. 

“Do not fight,” he says for the nth time. “You - I know I’ve told you, but you must stay with the Myrmidons and Automedon. You must not leave the chariot. We cannot risk breaking the illusion.”  _ And I cannot risk losing you. _

“I know,” Seonghwa says. He smiles at Hongjoong, reaching up to cup his face. “I love you.” 

Hongjoong’s eyes are worried as they drink in the sight of Seonghwa again, desperate for one final look before he goes to fight. 

“Come back to me, okay?” he says. He kisses Seonghwa, then, lips soft and familiar as he seemingly tries to kiss his power into him. “I’ll see you out.” 

Seonghwa nods, taking the spears offered to him. When they leave the tent, the Myrmidons watch them curiously. Their armor glitters under the son, still clean though it’s certain to be bloodstained by the time they return. 

“Bring him back, okay?” he says, turning to his Myrmidons. There’s the clanging of spears or swords against shields, the sound of their agreement, and Hongjoong nods. The chariot shifts a bit, lurching forward, and Seonghwa stumbles. Hongjoong jumps out to help steady him, also advising Seonghwa. 

“Balance them,” he says. “It’ll make it easier.” Seonghwa nods, moving his spear from his right to his left hand and also adjusting his helmet. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says to Hongjoong, though he’s trying to soothe both of them. There’s still so much to say. 

“Are you ready?” Automedon says from the front. Seonghwa nods. Hongjoong continues to hold his hand as the chariot pulls away.

“Be careful,” he says. Seonghwa squeezes his hand and smiles. 

“I will.” 

And then, into the battle he plunges. He opens his mouth and releases a war cry as the chariot gains speed, Automedon crouching down so he can be seen. And here, Patroclus becomes Achilles, shouting as the soldiers rejoice. He leads them into battle, and Seonghwa feels overcome with some sort of indescribable feeling. It has him lifting a spear and throwing it,  _ knowing _ it will land. He watches as the first Trojan falls to his hand, the rest of them scrambling away in fear. He throws his next spear, watching as it pierces yet another enemy soldier and he falls as well. The adrenaline fills him with confidence, so much so that Seonghwa begins to forget and he reaches down to squeeze Automedon’s shoulder. 

“Another spear,” he says over the fighting. Automedon looks like he wants to argue, but it wouldn’t make sense if the charioteer of Achilles suddenly stopped obeying him.

And they continue like that. Seonghwa’s confidence grows with each Trojan who falls to him until, at long last, he meets Sarpedon. 

He comes like a tidal wave, angry and hungry for blood. Not the blood of Seonghwa, no, but that of Hongjoong, of Achilles. Automedon, as Seonghwa prepares to throw another spear, tugs on the reins of the chariot and suddenly they’re turning away from the son of Zeus. But it is not enough to get away, and, soon enough, Seonghwa is thrown from the chariot along with Automedon, and he stumbles, his helmet coming to cover his eyes. Frantically, he pushes it back and then gets to his feet, his breath coming quick gasps. 

He doesn’t know how exactly it happens, but, suddenly, Sarpedon is lying dead in the soil. His neck is twisted at an unnatural angle, but it is not how Hongjoong would kill. So, Seonghwa, though he hates himself for it, rushes over and jams his spear through a chink in the man’s armor, watching as blood weakly spills from the wound without a heart to push it out. 

It is not enough to save him, though, but Automedon comes suddenly, grabbing Seonghwa by the shoulder and forcing him into the chariot. The dead horse from Sarpedon’s spear has been cut, and its fellows now huff and whiny nervously. Automedon cracks the reins and they’re off, escaping from the Lycians who chase after Seonghwa who has the blood of their king painting his spear. But Seonghwa, oh, gods, he can’t leave, not yet. Not when Hector still lives and Hongjoong’s death is still so inevitable. 

To escape, Automedon had driven them close to the unguarded walls of Troy. Seonghwa tastes blood in his mouth as he looks upon them, anger filling him. And then, before he or Automedon can stop him, Seonghwa is leaping from the chariot and racing toward the great walls of the great city, scrabbling up like some sort of animal. He’s desperate, gasping for air as he drags himself up, but he must. He cannot bear to think of a life without Hongjoong, how it would be to live without him. He would rather die. 

So, Seonghwa climbs. Yet, time and time again, he falls. It’s not even a fall, really - it’s much more like he’s being lifted from the walls and dropped onto the ground.

Until the final time, when the gods grow impatient with his eagerness and toss him. Seonghwa’s head hits the ground and he feels the now-unfamiliar sensation of cool winds ruffling his hair. He can see people crowding around him, faces blurred, but that isn’t what he’s thinking about. They know, whoever they are, that Achilles is not here. They know that it is only a decoy, that the greatest of the Greeks still hides. 

They are, at first, silent, and Seonghwa is unable to move. But then, suddenly, a ferocious scream breaks through and Seonghwa bolts, though he is far from fast enough to escape them. Nonetheless he runs, gasping for air as a spear ruffles his hair, missing by the length of an eyelash. Another, this one aimed toward his knees and meant to stop his movement, but Seonghwa somehow manages to leap over it. 

But then, he is struck. Seonghwa, in his haste, did not look back to see the spear hurtling toward him, and now he pays the price as blood gushes over the skin of his back. He opens his mouth - possibly to scream, though the pain is too great for him to be able to tell if he makes a sound or not - and then he falls. 

They crowd around him like a pack of wolves would an injured deer. Seonghwa’s blood is everywhere and it makes him feel sick. Scarlet rivers surround him until he’s lying in a scarlet sea, the grass painted red. Through his blurred vision, Seonghwa sees the crowd part, for this is not Achilles they are worried about. This is Patroclus, this is Seonghwa, his useless bed-warmer. And Hector does not fear him. 

Every breath hurts, yet Seonghwa doesn’t know what else to do as he tries to scramble away. He is going to die, he will never see Hongjoong again, Hector will kill him. And Seonghwa knows that Hongjoong will kill Hector once he hears of this. And then, his own death will follow.

Seonghwa tries to speak, to tell Hector that he must not kill him, for Hongjoong will then kill him, and, once Hector is dead, Hongjoong’s time will come. Hector  _ must _ live, he must live forever and ever because Hongjoong will be alive then. He must live. Hongjoong must be alive, though he will not be if Seonghwa and Hector are not. Because Seonghwa knows, now, that he is the first domino to fall in the chain of events that will lead to the fall of Hongjoong. 

“Please,” he whispers, scrambling to the closest man as Hector continues to approach. He grabs his knees with bloodstained hands. “Please, help me, I cannot die. Please,” he croaks, his voice sore with the dust he’s inhaled and the emotions he’s drowning in.

But they are indifferent to him. They will not look at this crying, exiled prince on his knees, and instead turn to Hector, the prince of Troy, eldest son of Priam. He will take the throne after his father’s death, but not if he kills Seonghwa, for then Hongjoong will kill him. 

He turns, then, as the footsteps get louder and louder until they’re near defeaning. Seonghwa opens his mouth to beg as Hector lifts his spear, silver point flashing in the sun. Seonghwa lifts his hands up to protect himself, but he knows it will do no good and such a thought is proven when the spear breaks through his hands and into his chest. The pain lights him one fire, bursting from his chest and taking over his entire body. 

“HONGJOONG!” he somehow shrieks, tears blurring his vision. He thinks he can hear someone respond. He thinks, maybe one last time, that he hears Hongjoong scream his name.

But then, he chokes and shakes as he falls, his eyes fluttering as Hector stares down at him. And that is the last thing he sees, Hector, staring down at him with a look of mild curiosity as Seonghwa dies. 

~

Hongjoong knows, but he refuses to accept it until they return. He saw them fight for the body whose name he knew but refused to say.

“Where is he?” he cries, rushing forward as they enter the camp. “Patroclus, where is he? Where is he?” 

Menelaus has something in his arms. It is a shroud and Hongjoong can see his armor. He can see a tanned foot hanging from it, though the skin is bloodied and covered in dirt.  _ No _ . 

“Where is he?” he cries again. “Where?” 

He receives only looks of pity in response. 

_ No. _

Hongjoong grabs his sword and prepares to slit his throat but someone - Antilochus, it seems - grabs his wrists and stops him while Hongjoong fights and screams like some sort of rabid dog. They are talking, he can hear them, but Hongjoong doesn’t care as he barrels forward and snatches Seonghwa from Menelaus. His eyes, at least, are closed. 

“Seonghwa, Seonghwa,” he cries, begging as if it’ll bring the man back. “No, no, you weren’t supposed to die.” He shrieks both of Seonghwa’s names into the air, crying and screaming because he wasn’t supposed to die. Yet Seonghwa is still in his arms and he is dead and-

“ _ Hector! _ ” Hongjoong shrieks. He would leap to his feet, but he will not drop Seonghwa. “HECTOR, YOU DAMN BASTARD!”

The men share looks with each other, but Hongjoong doesn’t care. He thinks he sees the girl - Briseis, was her name - run to them, but he does not care. All that matters now is avenging Seonghwa. 

“No,” Odysseus says. “No, Pelides, you must rest. You may not leave now, for they have withdrawn into their walls. You must wait.” 

Hongjoong hates it, but Odysseus is right. So he takes Seonghwa’s corpse with him and tucks him into bed, chasing the phantom of his warmth and tucking his head into the familiar crook of his neck, shutting his eyes and releasing a shaky sigh. 

“Seonghwa,” he whispers brokenly. “Seonghwa.” 

He thinks, if he tries hard enough, that he can imagine Seonghwa’s hands on him. He thinks that he can feel his lips, see his smile, remember him as he was. But, no matter what, whenever he opens his eyes, Seonghwa’s body is still just as cold as before, and Hector is still alive. 

Hongjoong tightens his hold on Seonghwa. 

_ Well, _ he thinks,  _ not for long. _

But, for now, he is content (if you can even call it that) to hold Seonghwa close and cry. 


End file.
